


Automotive Atrocities

by Galaxxi



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Humor, New York City, Platonic Relationships, Revenge, Vandalism, except its the 80s so i had to improvise a little, inspired by a post on tumblr about a TF finding themselves on shitty car mods daily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18728545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxxi/pseuds/Galaxxi
Summary: If Tracks ever expected to find himself in a magazine, this wasn't quite what he had in mind.





	Automotive Atrocities

**Author's Note:**

> Creds to fishbug on tumblr for the post that inspired this, as mentioned in the tags!  
> anyway i really love these two and there's a sad lack of fanfic for them so i hope to help fix that, this seemed like a good start. some of the cars described were based on real ones i've seen on that sub. hope you enjoy, please consider leaving a kudos or a comment if you do im not super confident in my writing and it helps motivate me to write more! <3

     New York didn’t always need saving. Sometimes the only thing in need of saving was your sanity from the ever-dastardly threat of boredom.

     Besides, if all they ever did together was stop Decepticons and go on crazy (and often dangerous) adventures, they might lose their excitement factor.

     Instead, the duo had opted for a more relaxed day of reading some auto magazines in a parking lot behind an abandoned theater, listening to music and chatting. Well, really it was Raoul's idea. He's the one that brought the radio and the magazines, as well as lunch for himself. He would have brought some for his friend if he could even _eat_ fast food, but even if he could with how open he was with his disgust over something so messy and greasy he probably wouldn't accept it. So Raoul sat leaned against the wall next to the mech, magazine against his legs, sandwich in one hand and thumbing through pages with his other.

    Tracks was busy as an Autobot, as much as Raoul was sure he'd love to he couldn't spend all his time around humans and their culture. It had been a while since they'd last seen each other, a little over a month, so most of their conversation was just playing catch-up on each other's lives. While Tracks had been out saving the world, participating in (and winning) street races, and scouting for further Decepticon activity, Raoul had been enjoying his work as a mechanic, repairing vehicles of all shapes and sizes and saving his paychecks for a ride of his own.

     “...I even got lucky this month on rent, my landlord was having trouble with her car and I fixed it up no problem. She said just having someone _look_ at it woulda cost her a few hundred, let alone for them to fix it, so she told me not to worry about it.”

    “ _Really?_ Look at you, helping _fix_ people's cars instead of stealing them.”

    “Hey man I already told you, there's only one car I ever tried to steal and _you're it._ Fixin’ cars is always what I wanted to do.”

    The Autobot chuckled, and Raoul took another bite of his sandwich as he put his attention back to his magazine.

    “Oh relax, I know. I'm just playing around. Good for you, helping your landlord like that.”

    He delicately flipped the page in the magazine that was too small for his large metal hands. This was something he had seen Bumblebee and Spike do together quite frequently, reading books and comics and the like. Bumblebee was far smaller than the average Autobot though, he had a much easier time with them. Tracks in the other hand felt a bit silly, reading something so small and quite frankly _trivial_ , but it's not like they printed cybertronian-sized magazines on this planet. But, it was what Raoul suggested they do, and if he couldn't partake in eating _garbage_ (thank the stars for little miracles) the least he could do was this. At least he could still read them, even if he had to zoom his vision in a bit…

    “Well, this certainly looks interesting.”

    “What does?”

    “This article. ‘ _New York's Worst: Automotive Atrocities’’,”_ Tracks read aloud. “It looks like it's a collection of pictures of tacky or poorly-customized vehicles from around town.”

     Raoul set his own magazine down at his side, still open to the page he left off on, and dropped his sandwich in the adjacent paper bag before standing.

     “Dude, lemme see.”

     The Autobot offered his hand and Raoul stepped on, letting Tracks drop him up on his shoulder. He held the magazine up close so they could both see it.

      “I've seen some real sorry excuses for cars around this city, I wonder if any of them are in here.” The mech said as his friend turned the page for him.

     “You 'n me both, I had one roll into the shop just last week- Oh, _man_ that's ugly.”

     The first car was a cherry red Audi Quattro that had thin silver stripes running along the sides of the vehicle. It had a large, sparkling hood ornament, neither of them could make out of what exactly, and huge chrome rims sitting inside wheels that appeared far too big for the car they were attached to, holding the blocky chassis so high off the ground it looked like a small child could walk right under it. The roof also sported not one, but _two_ radio antennas that followed the vertical contour of the windshield, and a spoiler hung off the back that sat almost at roof level.

    “What in the hell was that guy thinking when he did that?” The young man laughed.

     “I'd wager he _wasn't._ Those rims look shiny enough to run someone off the road, at the right angle. They're almost a _hazard._ ”

     “Yeah, wouldn't wanna drive next to _that_ guy.”

     The next page featured a white Mitsubishi of some kind that almost appeared normal aside from the recognizable orange and reds of rusting along the wheel wells, but it's space among 'New York's Worst’ lured them to look closer. Then, they caught the author's caption, and looked back to the vehicle.

     The long black racing stripe that sat atop the _cheap, matte white spray paint_ was, in fact, made of _duct tape._

     Raoul was _howling_ with laughter.

     “It might not be as _ugly_ as that last one… but it's certainly worse.” Tracks commented.

     “What- What kinda _idiot-_ ” The mechanic couldn't catch his breath in the laughing fit. “ _You can't spray paint a car like that - !”_

      At this rate Tracks was worried his friend might lose his balance and slip from his high spot on his shoulder. The Autobot examined the picture further, also trying to keep an eye on him to catch him if he fell.

      “You can already see the paint chipping like mad if you look, especially across the hood. You can't help but wonder if all the cash he spent on cheap paint has caught up to a professional paint job yet. Really, he should have just saved his money. That doesn't even _look good._ ”

      Raoul leaned forward with a sigh, finally composing himself.

      “Ohh my god, you know what? If I ever see that guy around here, I'll hook him up with my friend's body shop with a discount just for the laugh. Also because that's an embarrassment and I feel bad for the guy. I mean _come on._ You call that a cool paint job? You call that _cool in general? ”_

      “What a _good_ _samaritan_ you are.”

      He snorted and playfully smacked the side of the mechs white helmet, then flipped the page.

      This one… was a doozy.

      It was a black 1983 Ford Mustang, and It was absolutely _covered_ in decals and stickers, some even trailed over the windows and on the backs of the rear-view mirrors. Flames, horses, claw marks, crosses, and some that simply read “Ford”  or “Mustang” or both. There were so many the photographer had taken multiple shots of the car at many angles to showcase just how bad it was, and there were enough photos for a two-page spread. The stickers weren't the end of it however, there were silver decorations around the license plate as well as over the grille, scattered across the hood, spread over the various excessive air flow intakes…

      There was a _lot_ of silver decor, and a _lot_ of stickers.

      “Now _that_ guy looks like he went and bought every possible package they offered.” Raoul commented, “That thing’s overwhelming to look at, it's so…”

       “Cluttered. Tacky. And don't forget _hideous_.” Tracks interrupted. “This whole article is just full of absolute _eyesores._ How could anybody ever do this to their _own_ _cars_? Furthermore, _how can the shops_ applying _these mods allow their customers to ruin their cars like this?_ _”_

       “They don't really care, man. As long as they get paid they don't care _what_ their customers do. They ain't really paid to give cosmetic advice, y'know?”

       “Well _yikes._ If it were _me_ I wouldn't let anyone roll out of my shop looking so… _dreadful._ ”

      “Pssh, yeah. Don't take this the wrong way, but at that rate I don't think _anyone_ would be rolling out of your garage.” Raoul turned the page again. This time, it was a sleek, sapphire-blue Corvette, with flames spread almost like wings decorating the hood and stretching out to the slim curves over the wheels, a mechanical faction logo sitting straight in th-

      Wait.

      _Wait a second._

       “...Uhh, Tracks? Does this one look familiar or is it just me?”

       The Autobot brought the magazine closer to his eyes again. He squinted over his glasses before his eyes went wide and he gasped.

       “Well, that… can't be right. That _can't_ be right. This must be a new article about the _best_ cars in New York, or maybe they put the wrong photo in.”

        Raoul grabbed the magazine back again, quickly reading the caption out loud.

       _“This author spotted this tragedy of a vehicle sitting outside a nightclub. This blue 1982 Corvette Stingray features a bright screaming flame decal surrounding an unfamiliar emblem on the hood in yellow and red, clashing with the otherwise beautiful blue paint job. The strange emblem is mirrored on the roof, sitting in a yellow stripe that does not extend to the hood or trunk for some godforsaken reason.”_

        Tracks crossed his arms with a huff.

       “A… A _tragedy?_ That most certainly _must_ be a mistake. You know, I bet that author knows Sunstreaker, and _he_ put him up to this. My vehicle mode is the _classiest_ thing this city has ever seen, either that guy was put up to this or just doesn't know what he's talking about!”

     “Aw come on man, is it really worth getting so worked up over?”

     “ **Yes, it** **_is._ ** ” He replied sternly, letting Raoul back down to the ground. “I take _great pride_ in my appearance, my vehicle mode is only the finest car any human has ever designed and I spend more time keeping myself as pristine as possible than any bot I know...”

     He was standing now, pacing around the empty lot and gesturing wildly as he ranted, and the young man swore he heard his engine revving even from his reclaimed spot against the brick wall.

     “Taking all that into consideration, how could _anyone_ call me a _tragedy??_ I'm nothing short of _stunning_ , thank you very _much_. I guess some people really don't have any taste…”

     The mech's back was to him now, facing the city with his hands on his hips only long enough to sigh before turning to look at Raoul.

     “...You don't think I'm a tragedy, do you?”

     He shook his head.

     “Hell no, man.”

     Tracks smiled.

     “See, _you_ have taste. Maybe _you_ should be the one writing that article, instead of mister… What's the author's name?”

     Raoul flipped back a few pages to the start of the article.

     “Gerald Patterson.”

     “Gerald Patterson! What a _ridiculous_ name. Well tell you _what,_ Jerry, you're a disgrace to car enthusiasts everywhere.”

     Raoul went back to finishing his lunch while he watched Tracks rant and whine and generally throw a fit for another fifteen minutes. It was impressive, once you got him going he could complain for _hours._ It was rather entertaining, too - which might be a little mean to admit, but the dramatic theatrics of the Autobot’s tirade were really something to behold. But, to be fair, his fit was hardly undeserved. He was literally called a tragedy in a public magazine. A _local_ public magazine, but public nonetheless. That would hurt anyone, _especially_ a bot so narcissistic.

     After tossing the empty sandwich wrapper into the bag he went back to the magazine, Tracks still ranting in the background. He didn't get to finish the article, and he was curious if it said anything more about the Corvette, though he would of course spare his friend the details...

     “ _All around, this is a classic case of someone getting too giddy with their customization options and ruining an otherwise spectacular car. I'd wonder about the taste, or more accurately the lack thereof of its owner, but just as I was leaving this location I saw a young man sporting a raggedy, tan, diamond-studded leather jacket almost as tacky as the car itself leave the nightclub and drive off with it. Needless to say, I am no longer surprised by his terrible choice in paint jobs, nor fashion.”_

   Oh

    _Hell_

No.

   Now it was his turn to look surprised as he read the second paragraph over again. Raggedy? _Tacky?_ _Were they really thinking of the same jacket?_

   “-And I bet he doesn't even _have_ a slick ride, he probably drives a Skoda or something equally drab-”

   “Dude, you're not the only one that guy ripped apart!”

   “Well _hardly_ , but the difference is _I'm actually gorgeous,_ unlike the other cars in that article.”

   “No, I mean he got _me_ too! Look!”

   Tracks knelt down and took the magazine back, skimming past the rude comments at himself and reading the unwarranted comments about Raoul as well.

   “And here I was thinking he couldn't get any _more_ rude. Wasn't the point of this to showcase terrible _cars,_ not _fashion_?”

    “Gee, thanks.” He rolled his eyes. “This guy's a real jerk, I should give him a piece of my mind…”

    “What are you going to do, write him an angry letter he'll throw out?”

    He thought for a moment, then took the magazine back to flip through it. He went to the back, made a face and muttered a frustrated groan, then flipped to the front - and then, just as his eyes caught the nearby address of the company who wrote and published the magazine on the inner front cover, his face lit up.

   “No, I had something way better in mind…”

 

 

 

     5PM, his work day was officially over. The tall man stretched in his chair briefly before standing and grabbing his coat. Some paperwork addressed to a Gerald Patterson slid to the floor, and he cursed under his breath as he hastily picked them up and tossed then haphazardly back on his desk. He would deal with them tomorrow. He pushed the black rolling chair in with his foot and made his way to the elevator, where he rode down to the ground floor alone. The small space was lined with mirrors on all sides besides the floor, and during the twenty-seven floor descent he took the time to fix his black hair and adjust his tie before sliding his gray jacket over his shoulders just as he hit the ground floor. The sliding doors parted with a pleasant chime and he offered a wave to the secretary at the desk as he stepped out. She waved back with a smile before returning to her work, and he pushed through the rotating front door and made his way to where he always parked.

    He was too busy trying to find his keys to see what was coming, and just as he pulled them from his inner coat pocket did he look up and see what had happened to his white Skoda.

    It was _covered_ in spray paint that seeped into the new deep scratches and dents. The driver side door had bright orange and blue waves scribbled on them behind gold diamond patterns and there were some familiar flames painted a little too well over his hood, a large middle finger planted straight in the middle of them. Slowly circling the vehicle, disbelief clear on his face and his jaw joining his keys on the ground, he saw there were words sprayed on the passenger side door.

     “WHO IS THE TRAGEDY NOW?” was sprayed in a rich blue, with a smiley face just after the question mark.

     Jerry screamed.

    Only a block away, a Corvette hid in the evening shadows of an alleyway, watching with windows open and a young man in the driver's seat, spinning the keys to his apartment and workplace around his gloved finger. In the seat besides him sat an old messenger bag filled with cans of spray paint, the fresh colors still dripping down the sides of the cans. He was lucky the bag was waterproof from the inside and closed, or Tracks would have his head for staining his upholstery.

     Just as they heard the sound, the vehicle's headlights flicked up from the hood and lit up the alleyway, the satisfied roar of the engine echoing up the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. A smile crept onto Raoul's face, and the car loudly shot out onto the road and into traffic, grabbing the attention of many passer-by but most clearly that of the man on his knees in the parking lot. The mechanic glimpsed the wide-eyed despairing look on the writer's face as they zoomed past, and his pleased smirk turned into a full grin and then a laugh as they sped off into the sunset.

      Maybe it wasn't the most _Autobot_ thing to do, but damn if it didn't feel good. Besides, it's not like they hurt the guy - well, not physically, anyway. They never saw another ‘Automotive Atrocities’ article again.


End file.
